Remembering
by hallowgirlfrommars
Summary: As John leaves Baker Street, thinking that Sherlock's dead, he remembers the man who was really always his best friend. One Shot.


**Ok, this fic kind of switches between third person and second-just a one-shot of John's thoughts as he leaves Baker Street. Hope you enjoy it.**

**I do not (regrettably) own Sherlock or any of these characters. They belong to the brilliant Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss (and of course, the original series belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle.)**

**One Note: originally this was intended to be a songfic, but I decided against it-it works better on its' own. For anyone who's interested, the song would have been Kathy's Song by Simon and Garfunkel (which, naturally, I don't own either!)**

**Enjoy!**

I gaze around the flat. It looks ordinary enough-bare wooden floorboards, empty apart from an armchair and a mantelpiece, a clean, dully shining kitchen table standing ready in the kitchen, for someone new to march in, rub their hands and start a warm meal to warn out the cold day outside. Perfect. No sign of the things that used to be-of who for whom here was once home.

My eyes shut and my teeth dig into my lip. I rake my hands through my hair, and take deep breaths but cannot suppress the harsh guttural sob that rips through my throat. For a moment, I sink to my knees and bury my face in my hands, unable to do anything for that one moment but fall apart.

I think of him then, of the way he'd stare around this place now, wondering where his latest experiment is, what happened to his prize skull that served as his sole companion in the days before I entered his life. I think of what he'd say as he looked at me, hunkered on the floor, like a child in a fetal position, eyes screwed shut against the terrible reality that is this flat now-the final, concrete proof that he is not coming back.

I can almost see him then, standing there, those grey eyes staring straight back into mine, his face pale and set, determination and wildness equal and fighting. I can almost hear his voice echoing through my brain..._Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.._

"But I'm not you" I murmur, through gritted teeth as I fight a wave of tears that threaten to pull me under and hold me there to drown. "I'm not you. I was never you." And I wish he could hear me, wish so much he could hear me, somehow, somewhere.

_Please hear me..._

Never as good, never as smart...never enough. Because surely if I'd been enough, I would never have doubted, not for one second. Never, ever, would I even have considered the possibility that his-that your honesty might be faulty, that all you told me about yourself, about your work, might not stand up to examination, might be like a spider's web, concealing from me the real truth.

And I don't. I believe you. I suppose, deep down, I always did. But it's still not enough.

Because there was one moment, one moment in your flat that evening, that evening we knew the police were coming, that it was all falling apart, that I looked into your eyes and for one second I faltered. For one second, I let the thought enter my head that maybe there was a chance that they weren't mistaken. That maybe, there was a chance, that everything you'd told me, everything we'd been through, wasn't the truth.

That maybe, there was a chance that you'd lied.

It was only for a moment. And it was stupid, a thought borne of fear, spawned of desperation.

But I thought it. And that-that was inexcusable. Sherlock, I can run and drink and sleep and sob as much as I want but the truth of the matter is, Sherlock, in that moment, I failed you.

And that's something I'll never forget.

The media are all over this-the news, the papers, everybody. Everybody so keen to say they always knew it was impossible, always knew it couldn't be true, always knew there was something funny, all so keen to turn with the tide, those same people who once heralded you a genius..

I pull myself upright. Because there's nothing else to do, Sherlock. There's nothing to do for you now. It's too late. You're gone.

My hand flies to my mouth and suddenly I am gasping for breath, my eyes burning as I bend over, trying desperately to stem the rush of sobs, with such an effort that I gag, almost losing control of my stomach. You're gone..you're gone.. I'll never speak to you again. I'll never see you work again. You'll never again stun somebody with the news that their husband's having an affair and that they travelled to your flat by two cabs and that they have three Jack Russell terriers at home. You'll never again roll your eyes when Lestrade and Anderson can't keep up with you and mutter under your breath that there's so many idiots around, it's no wonder you're needed every five minutes.

And I'll never be there for you. I'll never be able to stand there and back you up or marvel at you or bite your head off when you annoy the hell out of me. I'll never be able to watch your back or defend you or force you to eat when you've starved yourself for three days while working on a case. I'll never be able to tell you I'm sorry, for ever, ever thinking you may have lied to me. I'll never, ever be able to tell you that you were a job originally-someone to tag along with, to pass some time on-but that by the end-hell, by that first evening working together-you were so much more than that.

All those people-Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, hell, even Irene Adler-all those people who stared at you, amazed, at one time or another-did any of them know you? Even your brother? Did any one of them know you the way I did?

All those people, who speak your name as mud now, as a liar- I bite my lip and close my eyes again-as a hoaxter, a criminal-all those people who once claimed you were brilliant, who wrote their headlines, sold their stories about you, the great detective, the genius, the one who could never be beaten... did any one of them ever think of you as human? Did any one of them see you deep down inside, as what you were- a man- an extraordinary, brilliant man, but a man? A man, who despite what he said, might have felt. A man who might have cared. A man, who may even possibly, maybe, have loved.

Did any of them ever see you as that? Or did they all see you as something else...a genius, a sociopath, a nutcase... but deep down, just the detective in the funny hat, who worked on cases because he couldn't feel any other way?

I straighten up. I can't stay. I can't. And I don't know what to do any more. I'm walking out of here with nowhere to stay, nowhere to go. I'm walking out of here with no plan at all.

And I can almost see you grin at that. _Plans...dull..._ and for a moment I almost smile. Yes, I'm sure that's exactly what you'd say.

I stand still for one more moment. I look around at the place I will never see again, the place where I spent so long, the place where you will always live to me.. and for a moment it's impossible to believe you're not hiding, just out of sight, just round the corner, just about to walk through the door, carrying a severed head from the morgue and practically bouncing with agitation, itching for a new case...

It's impossible but it's true.

And that's when I cry. Just for one moment, I cry. Not just for you. For what I lost-because I don't think even I let myself know, deep down, just how much I cared about you. More than that. Just how much I loved you.

Because I did. And I will never stop. Ever.

I once told someone I was your colleague, and I'll never forget the look on your face, as I turned towards you. It was there for a second, a flicker of a second, and then it was gone, another emotion filed away, locked safely up in a place in your mind where it couldn't hurt you. But I saw it. For a moment, a look of hurt flashed across your eyes and I'll never, ever forget it. Because in that moment, in that one tiny moment, you looked just as small, just as vulnerable, just as human as I did over a year ago, when I woke up in a hospital in Afghanistan, to be told I'd been shot in the shoulder.

I take my first step towards the door. Did anyone ever understand you? I can't claim to, and yet, perhaps I came closer to it than anyone else. Did anyone ever reach you? Did anyone ever see you as human?

Did anyone ever even try?

I shake my head. No use talking to someone who can't hear.

Should I say something? Should I say something about him, who there's no point speaking to, who I need to leave to rest now? Something about how he used to drive me crazy, waking me up in the night with explosions, keeping his latest experiment in the fridge, turning away from yet another stranger he'd insulted, leaving me to pick up the pieces? Should I say anything about all that?

And should I say anything about how I'd take all that? Take all that a thousand times and be grateful, how I'd put up with him, with his violin and his insults and his bloody pigheadedness, how I'd take all of it, if I could just have my best friend back?

I shake my head. There's no point in saying any of it. There's no point in saying anything. Nobody will hear. Nobody who'll care.

And I open the door to leave. I take one last look. Sherlock with his experiments. Sherlock with his laptop. Sherlock with his cadavers and creations. Sherlock with his raised eyebrows, his impatient sighs, his brilliant, brilliant mind always working three, four, five steps ahead of everyone else's. Sherlock-who felt even when he didn't know it.

And I think of the moment I knew he was gone forever, the moment I knew he was lost. The moment I asked him for one final miracle, that day at his graveside with Mrs. Hudson standing, pretending not to notice nearby. That day, I knew. I knew he was dead.

Because, if he'd heard that request, he'd have granted it. I know that. I know him. He was the one who could accomplish the impossible.

Sherlock. No other way to describe him.

I turn, wiping the last tears away, muffling my last gasps as I head for the stairs. I stand up straight, clear my face, wipe my eyes of all expression. The mark of the soldier.

I turn at the door. My final glance.

Slowly, I raise my hand to the side of my head and hold it there-a final salute, the sign given to any great commanding officer.

Then I turn and walk down the stairs. The door is still open-I couldn't bring myself to let it close. I reach the front door and without looking back, walk out to the street.

Slowly, I let the black wood swing closed behind me. I stare at the numbers-221b-burnt into my vision and permanently imprinted into my brain. I feel my eyes cloud again.

I turn away. "Bye.." I whisper, once, quickly, a fleeting breath of a word, that floats behind me as I turn to walk away down the street. It is gone immediately, my final farewell, hovering in the air for an instant, before being blown away by the whirlwind of chattering strangers. If it weren't for the wrench in my heart as I quicken my pace, I might never even have said it at all.

**Hope you enjoyed please review! :) Flames will be thrown in the bin-don't mind constructive criticism though!**


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